Welcome to Karachi
by MusicalChick13
Summary: After Sherlock saves Irene's life at the end of ASiB, both of them learn that the words "winning" and "losing" are far more complicated than their standard textbook definitions.


**A/N: Hey, look! I'm writing something other than Doctor/River! A little while back, I discovered Sherlock. And I'm so desperate for them to end this hiatus that I had to write ****_something_****. And Irene is my favorite, so…**

**I get that I'm one of about ten people in this entire fandom who ships Irene/Sherlock, and I'll probably lose a ton of respect from people who might have otherwise respected me. But I love this pairing more than I have any right to. As they say: don't like, don't read. :)**

**Welcome to Karachi**

No one had ever accused Irene Adler of being easily surprised. But nothing could have prepared her for her telltale text alert ringing out in the otherwise deathly silent atmosphere in some nondescript corner of Karachi. She had hit the "send" button on her phone, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes, fully expecting to die.

So when the one man she never expected to see again-the one who had as good as sentenced her to death in the first place-showed up to dispatch her killers and save her life, she was, well, surprised. That was really the only word she could think of to accurately describe her feelings toward the situation.

…Not that she wasn't extremely grateful. Besides, if someone was going to have the frustrating honor of catching her off-guard, it seemed right, despite everything, that it would be Sherlock Holmes. And she was glad it was in a situation like this. After all, she _really_ didn't want to die.

But she didn't have time to dwell on his presence here or her own feelings of astonishment. So when he tells her to run, she allows herself to crack a smile and obediently follows his command.

She quickly assesses-based on the angle the car she was in was parked on, vehicle accessibility, and probable defense patterns given the relative intelligence of the various members in this particular terrorist cell-where all of the various means of transportation and hidden lookouts are located and runs in the direction of the weakest point of defense. For said weakness was almost certainly the chink in the terrorists' armor the detective had exploited to break into the cell in the first place, and thus where his means of getaway had been stored.

Sure enough, she stumbles upon a rather inconspicuous, older model, grey car that happens to be two shades too light to belong to her captors. She sees that the passenger side door is unlocked and climbs in, allowing herself to breathe properly for the first time in about six months.

About two minutes later, her savior (she internally cringed to think of describing him with that term), fiddles with the car door and somehow manages to get in without the use of a key.

_Show off_, she thinks. Some things never change. But she, for some reason she can't define, smiles at his display of cockiness.

She closes her eyes for a few moments, and they are off, tearing through the back streets of Karachi.

* * *

They drive in silence, and although Irene is grateful for the brief respite she is allowed, she is desperate for one of them to say _something_. After all, he did come all the way over from the UK to save her life after condemning it in the first place. No one could blame her for being a little curious.

"Thank you." Because what else is there to say, really? She might as well be direct. She was certainly good at that.

He nods in acknowledgement as if to say, "You're welcome," and she thinks she detects the faintest of smiles playing around the corners of his mouth.

Another few minutes of unbearable silence.

"You know, you did a rather poor job of trying to blend in."

"What?" He asks, wondering what he could have possibly done to give himself away. She's probably trying to fluster him again-pretend she's not impressed or surprised, like her earlier admittance of gratefulness didn't happen.

"All of the cell's cars are the same shade of dark grey. Yours is noticeably a few shades lighter."

He glares at her as if he was going to pick up where the terrorists left off and behead her himself.

He turns his eyes back to the road and says, almost inaudibly, "No, it isn't."

She smiles, knowing he knows she's right and that she's won this round by getting him to respond to such a trivial remark in the first place.

"If you compare the color variations on any basic grey scale chart, you'll see that it is." She sees him briefly, almost imperceptibly, debate whether to say something in return.

After a few seconds, his thoughts somehow obtain lives of their own and transform themselves into words without his consent.

"It's not as if I had a lot of choice in the matter," he mutters, in a rather acidic tone of voice.

_Choice? What? He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, he could easily have figured out a way to…_ Oh. Oh, that _is_ quite wicked, indeed.

The older model of the vehicle, the entrance into the car with no keys…and, now that she thought about it, she never actually _saw_ him put any sort of key into the ignition…She steals a glance at the steering wheel, and sees what are unmistakably drill marks around the keyhole. She briefly allows herself a look at his feet and spots the metallic glint of a flathead screwdriver.

"Sherlock Holmes-did you steal and hotwire a car for me?"

The quick shift of his eyes and the merest hint of panic that crosses his face, which would have gone completely unnoticed by anyone else, tell her all she needs to know. She turns her face to the window and smirks in a way that can only be described as filthy.

He was just full of surprises, today, wasn't he?

And if Sherlock Holmes is ever accused of taking advantage of the red light they've stopped at to study the reflection of her face in the opposite window, noting how smug expressions look far less annoying on her than on other people and enjoying the way her eyes brighten ever-so-slightly, he will always deny it too vehemently to actually be believable.

* * *

He stashes the car in a small outcropping of trees, takes out two overnight bags stashed in the trunk, and leads her to a nearby hotel. Sherlock notices the slight crease between Irene's eyebrows while they're on the steps leading up to the front door and stops to fully turn toward her.

"I don't see any plausible reason why you should be upset. I did just save your life, after all."

She stares at him, obviously calculating her next move.

Without breaking his gaze, she asks, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeats, desperately wanting to avoid answering this particular question.

"Why."

He moves toward the door. He's not going to do this now. Actually, he's not going to do it at all.

But Irene doesn't move. Her arms are crossed and her gaze is still on him, somehow managing to make him feel even hotter than he already is in this God-awful heat under several layers of clothing.

"I'm not going in until I get an answer."

"Fine. Stay out here. Get killed. I'll just go in without you."

"No you won't. You came here for one specific purpose, and you won't leave until it's accomplished. If I don't move, neither will you."

She was right, of course. For the man who was supposedly hard to read and unpredictable, it didn't seem like he was currently doing a very good job of justifying his reputation.

"So what is it then?"

Well, he had to come up with _something_ or this was going to be a long, miserable night-if they both didn't die out here of heat stroke first.

"The way I see it, there are only, really, three possible reasons. The first is that you have some sort of attachment or romantic feelings towards me, which involves you admitting that you do, in fact, succumb to primitive, human emotions and aren't as above-it-all as you think. The second is that you can't live with the guilt of sending someone to die, thus proving that you live behind a mask and aren't the detached, hard-hearted sociopath you want everyone to believe you are. The third is that you respect me, and my mind, and couldn't bear to see it wasted, which means you admit that there is someone out there as interesting as you-on par with you-and that you can no longer label yourself as the only not-completely-insane intelligent person in the world. So which is it?"

She had him. Regardless of what he answered, he'd have to reveal personal feelings and vulnerabilities he didn't want to admit. Which would humiliate him the least? He supposed that admitting there were other smart people in the world was not as embarrassing as claiming that he was capable of (he shuddered internally) "_love" _or that he really was human and hid behind some sort of persona, rendering a big part of his life an elaborate lie. (Which wasn't really completely true anyway-he _was_ detached (mostly) and he had a feeling that if he gave out that specific answer, she wouldn't really believe him anyway and they'd be right back where they started.) Anyway, admitting a worthy opponent, while infuriatingly difficult, was certainly easier than admitting he fell victim to pointless human emotions like guilt or doubt (which, he knew, deep down, _was_ true).

"I…I'm afraid you'll have to run all of that by me again," he says at last, in a poor attempt to stall for time.

"We both know that's not true, Mister Holmes. We both know you remember every word I said." And she gives him a half-smile that somehow manages to be more terrifying than any terrorists or psychopathic IT men he's encountered in the last few years. Although for reasons he can't place.

"Well, I suppose…the third…one…" he drags out after another few extremely uncomfortable seconds. And it's made even worse by the fact that he can't even deny it to himself. Even he had to admit, she was good. He's certainly had more fun with her than he's had in ages. And he certainly couldn't bear to see one of the few people he actually held some sort of…respect for die in so mundane a way.

The woman at his side smirks again in that dangerous, yet oddly captivating way, making it somehow physically impossible for him to turn away from her.

She steps back slightly and gracefully gestures forward with her hand before saying, "After you."

* * *

They head to room number 51. It's rather shabby, but at least it looks clean.

As if the curly-haired detective could read Irene's thoughts, Sherlock remarks, "a simple glance would tell you that she sheets are changed at least once a day and every inch of this room, from the carpets to the bathroom to the dusty corners at the back of the closet, has been cleaned meticulously within the last four hours. I know the manager. He owes me a favor from a while back. He's rather obsessed with hygiene."

"I have to admit, it's more than I expected."

"You're welcome," he replies, somewhat insolently, and she fights the urge to roll her eyes at his cheekiness. And although no smirk is present on his face, Irene detects one lurking under his outwardly composed features.

He tosses her one of the overnight bags. "Pajamas, toothbrush, shampoo, and other necessities."

She digs out a small tube of shampoo, a hairbrush, and a pair of rather flimsy, light blue cotton pajamas and heads for the bathroom to use the shower.

"What, no trite quip about me joining you?" he asks with more than a little derision as she turns the knob on the door.

She turns to him and replies, "You broached the subject, not me," before shooting him a mischievous smile. She can still feel him glaring at her even after she closes the door.

* * *

It's Sherlock's turn to take a much-needed shower. When he steps out, he fully expects Irene to be completely divested of clothing, just like she was during their first meeting. He doesn't know why he expects it, he just does. It seems like something she would do. For warped sentimental reasons. Or seductive purposes.

So he is actually, legitimately surprised when he steps out of the bathroom to find the woman he's just saved sitting cross-legged on the bed fully clothed in light blue pajamas reading a book he's willing to bet every pound that's ever passed through his hands she's nicked from the shop downstairs.

Well, he supposes, she's got no reason to hide anything from him right now.

"Expecting something less, darling?" she inquires with an air of mock innocence, indicating the rest of her body with a quick flick of her eyes.

"Happy to see you've finally recognized your limitations in the realm of seduction."

_Oh, he was going to pay for that._

She merely chooses to raise her eyebrows and turns her attention back to the book Sherlock is sure must be dreadfully boring.

After he finishes combing his hair, he goes to the closet to pull a pair of slippers out of his overnight bag. While he is slipping the second one on, he hears her voice behind him.

"The standard alphabet code seems a little childish for you."

"You noticed." He tries really hard to fight the sudden, inexplicable urge he has to smile.

"Of course I did. I know you wouldn't have chosen a room number at random. It's not you. If you decided on room number fifty-one, you must have had a reason… Typical coding procedure for Internet puzzles made by people who think they're being original and clever. The letter 'A' equals 'one,' 'B' equals 'two,' 'C' equals 'three,' and so forth. Spell out something with numbers, translate those numbers into the letters that occupy those specific numerical places within the alphabet."

"So what's the significance of E.A.?"

"Nothing. If you take the letters of my first name and add up their numeric code correspondents, you get fifty-one."

…And now he realizes that, in his pitiful attempt to be moderately clever, he has done probably the worst thing imaginable. He has given her even more fodder for her mental arsenal to use against him.

"So, tell me, Mister Holmes, what am I supposed to think when you reserve a room with a number that corresponds to my name?"

"I thought it almost poetically fitting, under the circumstances, to follow in your admittedly clumsy footsteps," he answers, almost scornfully. He is referring, of course, to the passcode to her phone, how his name was the key. They make eye contact and he grins his trademark, unsettling grin.

Irene knew exactly what he was doing. _Oh, no he didn't_._ He was trying to get her to admit her sentiment first. That wouldn't do at all._

_…And really classy, to remind her of one of the worst days of her life, referencing that humiliating moment when he unlocked her stupid camera phone and caused her whole life to crumble into pieces. And then attempt to mock her with it._

"And before that psychopathic, death-obsessed cab driver I read about on John's blog was shot, did you give him a blind choice between a proper burial and an improper one in an attempt to mimic his method of killing by choice?"

Okay, that response was lame, and she knew it. Had she always been this stupid?

Of course not-only when she was around him. And the reasons behind that truth weren't something she particularly wanted to dwell on.

Irene could have sworn she heard Sherlock chuckle. She wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

After a moment, she turned back to her book while the detective took the motel's complementary notepad and pen on the nightstand, moved to sit on the gaudy, burnt orange chair on the opposite end of the room, and began scribbling something. At times, she thought she could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, but whenever she managed to sneak a glance at him, he was still fully absorbed in whatever it was he had been doing.

Sherlock thought he could feel her eyes on him as well, but every time he spared half a second to look up at her, his observations yielded the same results.

* * *

It takes them about another hour before they realize that there's only one bed.

"Well, this complicates things," Irene remarks, in a voice that makes Sherlock think she doesn't believe it really complicates things at all.

Sherlock somehow musters up a hard, clinical manner of speaking. "I will, of course, sleep on the floor, if I should become tired at some point during the course of the night."

"You will do no such thing. I can't even stand to think how…_uncomfortable_ that would be. You just saved my life. You shouldn't have to be the one suffering." She has no idea where this burst of sympathy has come from, but, somehow, Irene finds herself meaning every word she says. _Well, that's new._

"It doesn't make sense for you to, either. You should have at least one decent night's sleep before you live the rest of your life running and looking over your shoulder."

"Didn't know you cared."

"I'm taking the most practical course of action."

"Oh, come off it, you know there's more than enough room for the both of us."

_Of course, a clever ploy to get him, to some degree, in bed with her._

"I respectfully decline."

"Oh, you choose _now_ to be a gentleman."

"It's a rather shoddy bed. And there may be enough room for two people, but both of us would be extremely cramped. I would probably be better off on the carpet. And you know I don't need nearly as much sleep as you do."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock."

It's her use of his first name that makes him realize that she's not doing this as part of some pathetic plea for sex. She's doing it because she genuinely cares about him. He blinks thoughtfully as he considers this.

"I'm not being ridiculous. Just didn't know you cared."

_Great,_ Irene thought. _Now he's doing that thing where he brings back her remarks from earlier in the conversation and uses them against her. And he's __**still**__ trying to get her to openly admit to something before he does. _

But something indefinable in his eyes makes it clear that she's won the argument, even though his clever spinning of her words makes her feel like she's lost, anyway.

…And yet, somehow, losing to him wasn't as bad as losing to anyone else. Actually, there were a lot of dull, unpleasant things that weren't as unbearable when Sherlock was involved. So many of the rules she had subjected the rest of the world to just somehow didn't apply to him. They didn't apply because he was unlike any man she'd ever met.

They didn't apply simply because he was the _greatest_ man she'd ever met.

God, she sounded like one of those sappy heroines in those awful romance novels Kate always insisted on reading.

So she delves back into her equally awful book on the history of dog domestication (_why_ is that the only book they carry in the downstairs shop?) to prevent any similar thoughts from cropping up.

* * *

At eleven-thirty, she gives up trying to get through any more of the mind-numbingly insipid book and decides to observe Sherlock instead.

Currently, he is typing something on his phone with an almost calculated precision. Irene notes the gentle curve of his fingers as he taps the keys and the way his eyes narrow slightly when he takes a short moment to mull over exactly which word he wants to use. She takes in the almost imperceptible flick of his head to the right in order to clear a rogue piece of hair out of his face. She observes the rhythmic tapping of his left foot and how his fingers follow this rhythm as he keys in the rest of whatever it is he's typing.

When Sherlock finishes, Irene is unashamedly looking straight at him.

"Book really that boring?"

"What do you think?"

"Either that, or I must be incredibly interesting."

"Well, once I gave up on the book, it was either observe you or study the intricacies of the wallpaper. After much debate, you won by an incredibly small margin."

Choosing to ignore her comment, he pulls something out of his overnight bag, currently situated at his feet, and comes over to sit down on the bed next to her. It doesn't take Irene much deductive power to figure out that what he carried over with him was a map.

After the detective was seated, he walks Irene through the outline rest of his plan to get her out of the country and into relative safety. "This is the route we will be taking." He traced a circuitous path with his index finger. "If anything goes wrong, plan to meet up here." He pointed at a blue dot that would have been indistinguishable from all of the other blue dots if Irene had been anything resembling a woman of average intelligence. "Obviously, don't wait very long. If I don't show up within thirty minutes or you find yourself in any kind of immediate danger, get out as fast as you can. Your eventual point of departure is here." He pointed to another blue dot. "There is a warehouse which provides the headquarters of a smuggling operation. The man in charge has agreed to, shall we say, lift some cargo for me."

"Let me guess, he owes you a favor?"

"You could say that."

"So I'm relegated to semi-precious cargo and snuck out of the country under cover of a morally dubious group of people who perform questionable actions to make money. Sounds a lot like that girl on the _Serenity_."

He stares at her, a somewhat confused scowl starting to form at the edges of his eyes.

_Of course. A cult TV reference. As if he would ever actually get that._

He turns back to the map and replies stiffly, "If you are referring to the young woman on _Firefly_ who can destroy people with her mind, I hardly think that's an apt comparison."

It was her turn to stare.

"John watches it," Sherlock answers in response to her unasked question, not quite sincere enough to be believable.

"Kate did, too," Irene replies with the same lack of conviction. They both know they're not fooling anyone. It is a very intriguing and well-written show, after all. No one could blame them for wanting to watch a few episodes. Or all of it. Plus the movie…

After a few moments of awkward silence, he hands her a fake ID, driver's license, and passport. "You'll obviously need to do something to change your appearance to match these. In the morning, I will go out and buy supplies. I also have all of the papers you'll need, and will inform you of any remaining details tomorrow."

"You made me blonde?" she asks with a hint of playful mirth in her voice. Not that she had expected anything else of him.

"It works for you," he responds, almost reflexively. _All right,_ he thought, _when had he given himself permission to say __**that**__?_

Irene mercifully chooses to let him off with a smug expression.

"Hopefully, you will manage to travel without incident to your final destination."

"Which is?"

"Northern Siberia."

Irene raises her eyebrows and stares at him with an expression of mild incredulity before she recognizes the telltale signs that he's trying to hold back a smile.

_Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes was capable of joking?_

Deciding to play along, she says, "Seems a little anticlimactic."

"Relative isolation from the rest of the world is, more than likely, exactly what you need. Come to think of it, it's probably what the rest of the world needs as well."

"So you cart me off to a frozen wasteland where I'll essentially be living like a political prisoner." Her voice is heavy, but the sparkle in her eyes tells him she knows he's kidding.

He cracks what could almost be considered a playful smile. "You'll be treated like one _wherever_ you go. You've made quite a lot of enemies, Miss Adler."

She tilts the corners of her mouth up in a mischievous grin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"At least try to be careful when you leave. I know how inexperienced you are with keeping to yourself."

"You'd know all about inexperience, wouldn't you?" she suggests sultrily.

"I happen to well-versed in the intricacies of every subject known to man. My job is to solve crimes that are, by nature, impossible, uncommon, and complex. I guarantee there is nothing I haven't seen in my case studies. I highly doubt you could accuse _me_ of inexperience."

"Don't be coy, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you."

Gradually, over the course of their verbal sparring, their bodies have subconsciously inched closer together.

"You still haven't told me where I'm going."

"I will tomorrow morning."

"That's hardly fair." She leans forward fractionally.

"When have you ever played fair?" So does he.

"Oh," she narrows her eyes flirtatiously, "I can play a great many things." Another fraction. "I can be whomever I need to be."

"Like a sentimental girl with an embarrassing infatuation?"

If she's fazed by his reference to the infamous passcode, she certainly doesn't show it.

_Sentimental? Like he's not guilty of the exact same thing._

She leans in fractionally again. "I feel it's necessary to point out that you could have easily changed your text alert."

"You could easily have chosen four random numbers."

"You could have let me die."

"You could have refused to let John know you were still alive after your first 'death.'"

"You could have done something other than waltz around your flat composing sad violin music immediately afterwards."

"You could have withheld from flirting with me every second in my presence."

"And you could have declined my request for help during the whole Bond Air fiasco."

"You returned my coat."

"You actually _complimented_ me after I saw through the scheme with the fake phone."

"You entrusted your camera phone to me after you faked your death."

His hand was now resting on her knee, and her arm had somehow gravitated to settle gently on top of his. Neither of them was aware how this happened, and both of them cursed their bodies for mindlessly acting of their own accord.

Both of them are also breathing hard, for reasons that have nothing to do with the stuffiness of the room.

Softly, Irene murmurs, "I managed to fool _you_. Several times."

"But I," he counters smoothly, "took your pulse."

There is a tense silence that lasts for a few more seconds; then suddenly neither of them can take it anymore.

They both lean forward at the same time, and before either of them has time to think half of a coherent thought, she's kissing him, and he's kissing her, and neither of them is completely sure how they've gotten themselves into this position.

Irene, even with her now-closed eyes, senses Sherlock's right hand awkwardly clawing the air, unsure of what to do. She snatches it up with her left and brings both of their hands to rest gingerly on the side of her face.

He seems to gain some sense of initiative because his other arm quickly wraps around her waist and pulls her in even closer, leaving her free arm to climb up to settle on his shoulder.

As this behavior continues, the truth behind the depth and nature of Irene's feelings worms its way to the forefront of her mind. She's completely enamored of him. Of course she is, she _always_ _has been_. She can't even _try_ to bury it anymore because the weight of what she feels for the man she's kissing is far too heavy to ignore. But she finds that she doesn't even have the power to feel bad about it because she's finally found someone interesting. She's found someone who challenges and keeps up with her, and, dammit, for the first time in years, she's actually _happy_.

Sherlock doesn't emerge unscathed, either. He sees colors and shapes he didn't even know existed fill the darkness behind his eyelids, accompanied by something akin to warmth spreading through his entire body. With a sudden jolt of clarity, he realizes that he can't deny what he feels for the woman he's with, either. Because, like it or not, he feels something for her. Something romantic in nature. Something different from anything he's ever felt for anyone else.

But that doesn't mean that it's anything beyond a stupid, passing infatuation. It certainly doesn't mean he has to force himself to admit to…_sentiment_, of any kind. It's certainly not anything like _that_.

…And he has definitely not let her remove the coarse t-shirt he was planning to spend the night in.

…And he most _definitely_ is not currently unbuttoning her pajama top. With surprisingly deft fingers.

…And all of these precepts of self-denial were a load of absolute rubbish, weren't they?

This _was _sentiment, and he bloody well knew it. At this point, he knows there's no going back. He has, he supposed the expression was 'fallen for' this woman. Irene Adler. The one woman who matters…He has fallen hard, indeed.

With the discovery of this new information, he comes to the conclusion that, even though he emerged the victor in their game the moment he unlocked her phone, somehow, he's still lost.

* * *

If anyone ever figured out their respective personal revelations, both of them would deny ever thinking such things to the grave, convincingly enough to fool ordinary people and almost convincingly enough to fool themselves.

However, that doesn't change the fact that when the two of them wake up the next morning, it's after the best sleep they've had in years.

**A/N: Sherlock is seriously the most impossible character to write in the entire freaking world. And Irene really isn't that easy to write, either. I don't know why I do this to myself. But this was kind of fun. You know, once I stopped banging my head against my desk in frustration…**


End file.
